


The Have-and-Hold Aspect

by Anonymous



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-10
Updated: 2009-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unapologetic gay porn. The gay kind. With a wedding. A gay one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Have-and-Hold Aspect

**Author's Note:**

> [Dove](http://hija_paloma.livejournal.com)'s beta made [Elanna](http://elanna9.livejournal.com)'s birthday present much better than it otherwise would have been; this was originally written as unapologetic gay porn (the gay kind) with a gay wedding (a gay one), upon the occasion of President George W. Bush's [2005 State of the Union](http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/01/31/AR2006013101468.html) speech, and, in fact, was inspired by the contents of said speech.

"So, did I miss something?" Orlando asked, shutting the kitchen door behind him. He had already kicked off his trainers and left his jacket and newsboy cap in the closet and was perfectly conscious that his t-shirt was too small and showed a finger-width of skin at his hip.

"Yeah, you did. The milk has grown up, Orlando."

"Hunh?"

"Our baby. It's walking. And talking. I'm so proud." Viggo didn't look proud; he had the same deadpan gaze that he always did in the middle of some improbable practical joke, the only real tell he had, and the only way that Orlando could ever hope to beat him at poker.

"_What_?"

"The milk. Is fucking _sentient_, Orlando." He held up a carton of milk that Orlando vaguely recalled buying on one of his 'unscheduled' Beverly Hills runs, meant to perpetuate the fiction that he lived alone in a fashionable area and not in an unfashionable suburb with his boyfriend, albeit behind seven-foot-high walls.

"...Ooops?"

"Ooops. Make it up to me."

Magic words.

Orlando had never understood why people don't like apologizing. Fighting wasn't fun, but sometimes Orlando would pick a fight. Sometimes he wanted to be unhappy, to feel his chest tighten and heat, to feel his jaw clench. Sometimes he didn't bother with the argument.

He always wanted to make up.

He always wanted to make out.

Viggo's kisses were hard, unrelenting, undeniable—you knew when Viggo'd _kissed_ you as opposed to just kissing you. You knew. Orlando had known, even before. Orlando had known, when Viggo had said hello, when Viggo hadn't looked at him but beyond him, when Viggo hadn't touched him but held him.

Then he had learned how to kiss Viggo like that—to use his whole mouth and throat and chest and hands, to mean it.

He meant it, as he pressed his mouth along the space above Viggo's collarbone, and he meant everything as he traced the curves and angles of Viggo's skin. He brushed the pads of his fingers over Viggo's hipbones, after he thoroughly stroked and smoothed and soothed the curved patterns of his ribs, even if Viggo's breathing grew steadily unsteadier throughout. He ran the sharp line of his fingernail against the blue and black ink of the moon tattoo; Viggo's breath actually hitched.

Apologies, after a certain point, seemed redundant.

Instead, Orlando ran the tip of his tongue along Viggo's edges, making more of them as muscles clenched and Viggo's eyes grew darker. He spelled out his own name on the inside of Viggo's forearm, and drew the zipper of Viggo's jeans down with his teeth.

He wasn't going to say he was sorry, he wasn't going to ask questions about Dennis flipping through the script he'd left in the living room the night before, he wasn't going to find out why his sister was dozing on the couch; he'd use his mouth for a different language.

"No," Viggo said, and twisted his fingers into the weave of his collar, pulling him upwards, standing up himself, so that they were chest-to-chest.

Orlando pushed a stray lock of hair off Viggo's forehead. "What?" he asked, although he was pretty sure he knew.

"Fucking tiny buttons," Viggo said.

"I'm not too attached to them," Orlando hinted, reaching for his zipper. He was half-hard already, and the pressure of the old denim was going to be painful in a minute.

Viggo glanced up, and then returned his gaze to his fingers flicking open the mother-of-pearl buttons. "I like having to work for it," he said. "You're worth that kind of effort."

And wasn't that Viggo all over, making a quick fuck in the kitchen into something more?

Viggo always made it into something more—wanted more, gave more, and while it was frightening sometimes, that kind of intensity, it always made Orlando want to deserve it. To be loved so _much_, by someone he loved himself, was an honor, he knew, and he was always aware of that; it was something to be taken seriously.

This was, after all, not a relationship he could be careless about.

Orlando groaned as Viggo's hands rested on his shoulders, drawing him closer, and then turned him around. His entire body, his skin, was warm, in the pale triangle between his shoulder blades, below the demarcation line of his tan, and Viggo licked the borders of it carefully. "Cinnamon," he said, his breath stirring the fine hairs.

"You've been reading those supermarket romances again, haven't you?" Orlando sighed, his head hanging low between his shoulders, muscles standing out in sharp relief as he braced himself against the counter.

"No, you."

"Haven't!" Orlando protested, beginning to lift his head, and thinking better of it.

"No. You're cinnamon. You make everything bitter and dark—coffee, chocolate—that should be that way, you make it more noticeable, make it better. Better at being dark, better at being bitter, because you could be. You should be, but you're not, and they are, and it's all about contrast. Tension. The moment before and between, the moment of uncertain certainty."

"...the fuck?"

"Do you really think I'm even trying to make sense when I'm licking your spine?"

"Do more of it, and I won't care." Viggo laughed, and didn't—instead, he started to bite, teeth pressing on each vertebra, sliding downward until he was crouched on the kitchen floor. He made Orlando wait those crucial five seconds, making Orlando squirm impatiently even though he knew what Viggo was doing, letting saliva flood the plains and valleys of his mouth, wetting his tongue, whetting his appetite, and then he leaned in.

It was only later, when Orlando's legs were steady enough for him to turn around, that he realized that it wasn't the pressure so much as the rhythm of Viggo's mouth—Orlando tried to concentrate on and identify the tune Viggo was humming, but it was submerged under the rush of blood in his ears, and he fought to breathe.

Calluses scraped the base of his cock, and he exhaled, trying to control and tamp down the surge that ran through him. "Ask for it," he thought he heard, or maybe he wanted to ask.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want everything," he said.

He had always wanted everything. But Viggo was the first person he'd ever found who wanted everything from him, and who was willing, even eager, to give him that much. It threw into relief, as sharp as cheekbones, the way desire felt and echoed in his bones, and the thick, careless slide of tongue against the vein on the underside of his cock lit his brain up; the room went black, and then white, and then sparkled in colors he didn't think had a name.

He reached down, hands still shaking a little, and rested his palm against Viggo's cheek. They stayed like that for a few minutes, and then Viggo stood, far more carefully than he would have had to five years ago, and brushed his mouth against Orlando's.

Orlando sighed, and bent his head to bite softly at Viggo's chin, the sharpness of the stubble and the fleshiness of the lobes beside his dimple. Viggo started humming again, and it was a different tune (if you could call it a tune at all), just the inarticulate vibration of pleasure. Orlando flicked his tongue against the depression, tasting skin and soap, and started nipping at the line of Viggo's jaw and the underside of it that led into the column of his throat. "So, what did I miss, besides the milk's first word?" he asked, swiping his tongue against a healed-over shaving cut.

"Your wedding."

"...I repeat, the _fuck_?" he said, pulling back.

"Well, technically, our wedding, but since I missed it too, I don't think it's ours anymore."

"I also seem to have missed your proposal," Orlando said, raising an eyebrow. They had never really talked about marriage in so many words; it simply wasn't possible for them to share even a checking account, but it wasn't as if they'd needed anything more than Viggo's murmur of "_Mine_," and Orlando's sleepy affirmative mumble, years ago.

"I thought you proposed."

"When was this?"

"A while ago."

The only thing Orlando could think of was the first time he had come here with only a duffle, since the rest of his possessions had actually been unpacked and left behind when he'd gone, for the first time in too many years. "So this is what it feels like to come home," he'd said, as he tossed his keys into the bowl, half-full of change, on the table near the door. Viggo had smiled, and something warm had opened up behind his ribs. "I'm going to stay, you know," he'd said, even though he knew he didn't need to say it.

"Seriously, why are there people in our living room?"

Viggo snickered. "Somehow," he said, "I doubt they're there anymore. Not after you yelling your lungs out a few minutes ago."

"Oh come on, man, you can't blame me for that, you know I can't control myself when you do that _thing_ with your teeth, and I bet Liv was watching. She's wanted to see you come, that dazed look you get, ever since—"

"Ever since what?"

"Um?"

"Ever _since_, Orlando?"

"Ever since you started distracting me with your growly voice when I'm trying to get an explanation for why practically all our friends are in our living room?" Orlando tried.

"You know, for an actor, you're a shitty liar."

"...ever since she got me drunk and I maybe possibly kinda gave her details about our sex life and what you do to me on a far too irregular basis."

"Well, okay, then."

"You have no shame!"

"Shame is for those who have something to be ashamed of. And fucking you into oblivion is nothing to be ashamed of." Viggo, in fact, looked rather proud of himself, and Orlando admitted privately that the dazed look on his own face was not something Viggo had any reason to be embarrassed about.

He laughed, and leaned forward to press his forehead against Viggo's shoulder. "When you put it like that," he said, "you have a point. Care to fuck me into oblivion now?"

"I thought you wanted to know about the people in the living room?"

"Curiosity," Orlando murmured, "killed the cat. I'm not suicidal."

"Nor are you a cat."

"A distinction without a difference."

"...Do you have some fetish that you haven't told me about?"

"Oh, way to kill the mood, man," Orlando said, making a face. It had been a lovely weekend the time he had discovered Viggo's fascination with his two tattoos, the way he liked tracing their outlines with his tongue, leaving bruises like frames around them with his teeth, but Orlando did not like thinking of himself as having _kinks_ or _fetishes_.

Being gay was making his life hard enough.

"Like you need a mood."

"Yeah. Just need you."

"Lube would be nice," Viggo said wryly. They had fucked dry once, and it had, to say the least, not been a pleasant experience for either of them.

"We're in the kitchen, Viggo," Orlando observed. "Do you seriously think we can't improvise?"

"Young grasshopper speaks truth," Viggo said, curving his hands around the muscles of Orlando's ass.

Orlando leaned back. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he said, and hoisted himself up to perch on the counter. "So, lube?"

"Butter?" Viggo suggested.

"Right, because I'm going to have soy butter up my arse," Orlando snorted. "Olive oil?"

"Tastes disgusting straight."

"The word 'straight' needs to stay very far away from this conversation. But I take your point."

"Vanilla?"

"Okay, seriously, you're freaking me out here."

"Never mind," Viggo said, upending the tiny brown bottle over his fingers. "I used most of it in those cookies last week, do you know if there are any left?" He wandered over to the cabinets next to the fridge, tossing the empty vanilla extract in the bin as he passed it, and opened the cabinet door, removing several glass bottles, half-full of mysterious substances, before Orlando cleared his throat pointedly. "Oh. Right. Sex."

"Look, I know the libido goes with age," Orlando said, "but _man_."

"Sassy little fucker," Viggo said as he came back over and pushed Orlando's thighs further apart, putting one of the bottles down next to the toaster.

"That would be you, if you'd _fucking find lube_!"

Viggo grinned and poured vivid green oil over his fingers. "You're not getting rimmed this time," he warned, and Orlando looked up toward the ceiling imploringly. "Don't want to spoil you," he added, grinning in the way that made his eyes almost disappear in creases.

"I'll skip the rimming this _once_," Orlando said with an exaggerated sigh, "if you'll just fucking—ah!" He threw his head back, arching his back, and Viggo moved his fingers again. "More," he groaned.

"Yeah, that'll do," Viggo said a minute later. "You were already open enough, I bet, you—" and the adjective was cut off by Orlando's mouth pressing against his. "Give me your hand," he murmured as Orlando moved away, and laced their fingers together. The cold-press oil warmed against their skin, and Orlando drew in a labored breath.

"This the extra-virgin stuff?" he asked as he slid forward and reached his slick hand down between Viggo's legs. His thumb rubbed below the head, catching on the delicate ridge of skin there. His fingers tightened, far too briefly, he knew, sliding around, leaving slippery trails to mark their passage, and Viggo groaned.

"Not anymore," he managed to say, closing his eyes, and Orlando smiled. He was familiar with the sharp jolt of pleasure that ratcheted up Viggo's spine as he moved his hand, watching Viggo's face intently, looking for the moment just as Viggo began to think he was going to come, and then Orlando pulled his hand away.

Getting fucked by Viggo was different from anything else Orlando had ever experienced. (Of course it was; Viggo himself was so different from anyone else that Orlando had ever been in love with, hell, ever known, that he would have been disappointed if sex had not been as radically so.) It would be more accurate to say that there was nothing better than getting fucked by Viggo, but still not quite right, because pleasures were not comparable.

Getting fucked by Viggo was pure pleasure, even when the sex was bad, as it had been the first time; as it had been that time they were both drunk; as it had been the time Orlando had taken cramp and fallen and nearly kneed Viggo in the groin.

And when the sex was good, it was phenomenal.

It was sleek and hot and the rhythm of Viggo's ragged breathing. It was incoherent and always full of discoveries, like the way Viggo's fingers fit against Orlando's ribs, and always intimately familiar; Orlando opened his eyes and Viggo's dilated pupils met his gaze.

"Oh," Orlando gasped, reaching behind himself to brace his hands on the counter and lifting his hips a crucial fraction of an inch. "Oh, god, god, more, god, _Viggo_."

He had never said anyone else's name quite like that.

"Wow," Orlando said, a moment later. "Why haven't we done this before?"

"We've had sex before, Orlando."

"No, I mean," he paused, his chest still heaving, "sex in the kitchen."

"Anyone could've come in," Viggo pointed out, taking in gulps of air.

"Yeah, but..." Orlando hesitated, catching his lower lip between his teeth. "It was safe, you know? _Our_ house. _Our_ kitchen. It's safe here, because it's ours, because it's yours and mine and that makes a lot of things better or even just okay, when they wouldn't be if there wasn't a you to, you know. _I'm_ safe with you."

"Who'd have thought you crave security," Viggo said softly, but his voice wasn't teasing, and his finger pressed gently against the tender flesh at the point of Orlando's jaw.

"Not quite," Orlando said slowly. "Not security the way most people mean it. Not the normal, routine stuff. Not the, mmm, that's nice, the things most people worry about, the rent, the food budget, the petrol in the car. I can do that for myself, you know? I can take care of myself. Just—I _trust_ you."

"I know you do," Viggo said, and Orlando suddenly felt the absurdity of the situation—the kitchen smelled of coffee and sex, they were sweaty and sticky, and he had a horrible feeling that everyone who had been in the living room was getting impatient. Pre-wedding sex was permissible, but it was going to take _months_ to live this down, especially the whole more-than-once aspect.

But this conversation was more important than Billy and Dom's inevitable attempts to tag-team them.

Orlando sighed. "You know," he said a moment later, tipping his head forward to allow Viggo's hands better access to the back of his neck, "if you were a woman—"

"Can I just take the opportunity to remind you that I fucked you against the kitchen counter not two minutes ago, and that most of the Western world has photographic evidence that I'm male?"

"Shut up," Orlando said. "Hypothetically. If you were a woman, I'd have asked you to marry me, like, five years ago."

"Really?" Viggo asked skeptically.

"...No," Orlando admitted. "No. Because five years ago...I couldn't have. I couldn't ask you for that. Five years ago, I had no idea—I didn't know what I was going to show willing to do. For you. The compromises."

Viggo drew in a breath.

"Shut up," Orlando said, opening his eyes, his voice low and deep. "Some of them, the, you know which ones, were fucking stupid, and I wish I'd done them differently, but I _don't regret them_, the compromises themselves, the act of doing all that shit, because I did them for the right fucking reasons. Reason. And I don't mean to make you feel guilty or anything, but you are my reason for every last one of those things, and you're fucking worth it, all of it, and I couldn't have said that five years ago, because I didn't know shit about _shit_ then."

"You know a lot more than shit now," Viggo said a moment later, when they could pretend his voice was steady.

"Yeah. So I can say that now, and, and, I am. I am saying it."

"Is this your proposal?"

"I...guess."

"You guess? Next time, Orlando, don't start out by suggesting that gender-reassignment surgery would be a good first step."

"Fuck you," Orlando said promptly, and clapped a hand over his mouth, and mumbled through his fingers, "yes."

"Aren't I supposed to be the one answering if you're proposing?"

"Yes. I mean. I am. Proposing."

"Okay. Yes. _Sì_."

It was that easy, Orlando thought, dumbly—it must have been such a complicated proposition, to get so many people to Los Angeles at the same time without letting Orlando in on it, and how had they been manipulated into having this conversation now when apparently everything was just waiting for them to come to their senses, and --. Suddenly it was so simple. _Yes_. That was all.

"So, wedding," Orlando said.

"Yep."

"Wedding."

"Yeah."

"_Wedding_."

Viggo nodded.

"I mean, nothing _against_ weddings, just."

"Weddings are..."

"Weddings are normal."

"With Ian McKellan conducting the ceremony? And Elijah Wood as ringbearer? This is not going to be normal, Orlando, for any definition of the word."

"Elijah _what_?"

"You heard me," Viggo said, snickering.

"Can I mock him for that?"

"Could I stop you?"

"Oh, it is totally worth getting married to have this kind of material to mock Lijah with forever," Orlando said, knowing that the expression his sister described as 'evil glee' was lighting his face up.

"Only to mock the guy?"

"Well, the have-and-hold aspect, too, that's not a bad idea," Orlando said. His arms tightened around Viggo's shoulders, but his mind was still on the humiliation possibilities, as he shifted, beginning to push himself up. "Come on, let's do this. There'll be champagne, right?"

Viggo watched him stand and stretch, turning toward the living room. "Orlando," he said.

"What?"

"Pants first."


End file.
